Rob and I were visiting London and had spent the day tooling around town on a double-decker tour bus. It was mid-afternoon and we were tired. We were thinking about heading back to our hotel when we looked out the window and saw police in riot gear running down an alleyway.
We never spoke a word, but when the bus stopped at the next corner we both lunged off and hit the pavement running. We had no idea what the police were chasing, but we knew it was bound to be more interesting than anything we could find on a tour bus.
It was May 1, 2003, two months after the United States—with help from the United Kingdom—invaded Iraq using the justification that Saddam Hussein was developing weapons of mass destruction.
Having grown up in the U.S., I always associated May Day with leaving baskets of flowers on neighbors’ doorsteps. But in many other countries, May Day is also International Workers’ Day, a day of political demonstrations. As we followed the police into Trafalgar Square, we found ourselves in the middle of one.
The focus of the protest, naturally, was our involvement in Iraq. We spoke to a few of the protesters, who were quite friendly to us in spite of our obviously USian accents. Although the police arrested a few people, there was, thankfully, no serious violence at this rally.
Near the end of the demonstration, Rob wandered off to get some good photos, while I stayed put chatting with one of the locals. It was 7:00, the hour the police had announced the demonstration had to end, and they made it happen by forming a line that no one was allowed to cross. Naturally, Rob and I were on opposite sides of the line. I hung out in the National Gallery for a while, until eventually the crowd dispersed and we were reunited.
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